The first is the wearing of the Lilly. On the first day of spring you must wear something from Lilly Pulitzer. Preferably while you are going out to purchase another Lilly to add to your collection. One of the biggest heartbreaks I have in life is that I have no daughter to leave my Lilly's to, and I have an awesome sized 2-4 collection. Though it's a bit early to daughter-in-law shop, I cannot help but notice how cute the Teenager's girlfriend-aka "The Petite Beauty"-would look in some of my smaller wrap around skirts. She is currently rebelling against the Man and a variety of sweatshop created clothing lines, but I sense great Lilly potential in her. Plus, I think they might be created somewhere in the U.S. I just went to check the labels, but I didn't see where they were made. I'm sure they're fine though, Lilly doesn't look like the sort of woman that would condone sweatshop practices.
The second is the wearing of the Fracas. In fact, I'm going to spritz some on right now since we are ten minutes into official spring. Oh my word, that is sooooo good. I know some women wear this as a signature scent all year, but to me it only smells right during early spring. As much as I adore it, I find living in hot and humid South Georgia makes this scent just overwhelming by June.
The third is the urge to go on Spring Break. As I mentioned the other day, the annual migration of the Northern Snowbird is occurring. As they clog up I-75 north with their unwieldy ten ton conveyances, their adorable grandchildren are wreaking havoc on the opposite side of the road as they race toward the Sodom and Gomorrah that is Panama City. A week of sun and drunken depravity while wearing next to nothing. Just my sort of place, except with more sunscreen.
I was watching one of those reality countdown shows a few days ago; you know the ones that are as addictive as infomercials. They get me every time, I end up watching the entire thing because I HAVE to know what the top three whatever is. This particular E! Original Countdown highlighted all the hot Spring Break destinations and showed salacious peeks of wet t-shirt contests, margarita wrestling pits, and one contest that I loved in particular; how many sex positions could you drunkenly simulate with a complete stranger while being cheered on by other drunk strangers as you're being filmed for a TV special. This generation is crazy as hell! In my day,(that sounded old) we got to get our freak on anonymously. No one was filming it on their phone, there was no MySpace or YouTube for you to show up on in all your wasted glory. You never had to worry about your parents, or worse a potential employer, seeing you give a raunchy lap dance to some lacrosse player from B.U. , or running down the boardwalk naked after too much X. By next week, early education teachers from all over Ohio and Indiana will be sweating in their cardigans; wondering if compromising pictures will show up on the Internet of them simulating blow jobs with kielbasa after way too many Jager Bombs. But besides that, it still looked like fun to me.
As soon as the show was over, I called my B.F. She works outside her home in a real office, but her job seems to consist of talking on the phone to friends and relatives. In all fairness she is actually a great employee, she just gets all her work done by around 9:30. The rest of the day is spent texting and chatting with friends. And going to lunch. Anyway I called her to tell her that I wanted to go on Spring Break again. She is about as emotionally immature as I am, and is always a great partner in crime. This time she was less than enthusiastic.
"Who the hell wants to stay in a room with fourteen other forty year old women?" was the first sarcastic comment out of her mouth. "It would be fun." , I whined unconvincingly. "We could sleep in shifts, just like the old days. And shower in shifts too. Trade clothes and giggle alot."
"What if someone wants to bring someone back to the room?" she asked sceptically. She's single, so this is a possibility for her. "Just do them on the beach for god's sake, why are you so literal?" I fired back with just a little irritation. Damn, there was always someone just like her in college too, always making things more difficult. "Why do you want to go to Spring Break so bad anyway?" she asked me and I finally had to 'fess up. I wanted to show off my new mad booty shaking skills.
Now where you ask, does a forty plus woman learn to booty shake? At the YMCA, of course! For those of you that live in large metropolitan areas this is probably no big deal, but here in Valdosta we don't have all those sexy workout classes. We don't have pole dancing, or tantric yoga, or dirty housekeeping workouts, or anything even remotely like that. We do have "Jump for Jesus", which I hear is aerobics set to Christian music. I learned to booty shake in my Zumba class; Zumba being some Afro-Caribbean-Brazilian-Cuban aerobic workout that emphasizes rump shaking while waving your arms around. It's a really fun class and now that we ladies are all comfortable together, some of us have begun to really move. In the first few classes everyone was self conscious; so instead of doing the Zumba we looked like we were doing the Hydra. Remember the hydra from seventh grade biology? The little simple one celled animal that lived in freshwater and was forever planted in one place just waving it's little tentacles frenetically around? Now picture a whole class of middle aged hydras in gym clothes.
I've gotten pretty good at it too. I have a big ethnic butt; and that, my friend, is the key to successful booty shaking. The physics involved seem to correspond to the Kerr-Newman metric; which has something to do with the geometry of spacetime around a large rotating mass. Here's the formula:
I'm not so good with math, so I don't actually understand any of the above. My math skills only extend to figuring out percentages off in sale situations, i.e. that Dolce and Gabbana skirt is marked down to $389, plus 40% off, PLUS another 10% off if you open a Neiman's card today. Those sales associates can give you the answer in a heartbeat, they must be taught special math skills. Notice I did not say I could calculate the answer myself, I was however able to deduce the item in question was probably a pretty good price.
For those of you that also didn't excel in any math above the most basic, which of course ruled out AP physics, here is how you rump shake. You might want to try this alone for a few weeks before you unleash your new talent on your friends. Do wait until you've all had a few cocktails and most importantly, when it is an appropriate time. If you aspire to be a Junior League officer, wait until after you have secured the position before unleashing this. If you're already an officer, you're going to shock and awe everyone so damn bad you'll be stuck as cookbook coordinator forever. Or you'll immediately be voted Queen for Life. Some chapters are more liberal than others. Choose wisely.
First, you need to pretend you're Beyonce. She pretends she is someone named Sasha Fierce; who apparently is the Queen-Goddess of successful rump shaking. You need to relax your knees into a slight bend and curve your lower back into a very pronounced "C" shape. Lift your arms up to where they are parallel to the floor and bend your elbows slightly inward so that your hands are facing each other. Now this is the hard part; you need to toss your rump up in the air without lifting up on your toes or moving your knees at all. As you toss your rump, your arms should push your shoulders back in a synchronized movement with your butt and your arms will naturally pump toward your chest. Exhale while you do the toss. Inhale while you reload the toss. Start out slow until this feels like a natural movement; then speed up when you feel more confident. Then you can let gravity sort of take over from here, this is why you need some volume and mass back there. Remember the second of Newton's Laws of Motion applies here: F=ma or force equals mass x acceleration. This is just an over educated way of saying that the faster you move your fat ass, the less force you will have to exert because gravity plus acceleration will get that beach ball bouncing like Jello in an earthquake. Ever shaken a plate of Jello? You know how when you let go, it keeps on shaking? This is the effect you want. Firm Jello though, if your Jello is not set then you might not want to try this. If by chance you have have no ass at all then you should stick strictly to wet t-shirt contests or wrestling in alcohol with the other flat booty ho's.
On the show I watched the winner was a really cute, girl next door looking sort of piece, who was a bank manager in her home town. I hope to god she has plausible deniability when and if her boss ever sees that show. That girl was nasty with a capital "N". She's immortalized on YouTube also, and once you're on the Internet you are part of history. I can't wait until that video surfaces in a few more years. Can you imagine that dinner conversation?
"Look baby! There's mama in Cabo, shaking it like it's on fire! That was what I looked like before stretch marks! You know why you're so special? 'Cause your mama won the booty shake contest! I was soooooooo drunk."
Anyway, as much fun as I made Spring Break sound, my favorite partner in crime seemed unconvinced about going. She wouldn't let me take her daughter either, who is home on Spring Break and doing yard work for her mama. She's good daughter-in-law material too. I wonder how she feels about Lilly's?
Now go work that booty shake!
Love and Kisses,
Cult Diva
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